


Coffee and Bullets

by FruitfulMind



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, Oswald's a little shit even in AUs, Someone stop me, takes place midway through season one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FruitfulMind/pseuds/FruitfulMind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Gordon's on another case, its really a race against the clock. But before he and Harvey can get to business, his partner needs a little pick-me-up. There, Jim meets a little (and sarcastic) barista named Oswald Cobblepot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Beginnings

Jim Gordon never really _liked_ coffee. He could stand it, yes. But like was a strong word; It got him through the day, like a vice. The first thing in the morning when he arrived at the precinct were always his partner, Detective Harvey Bullock, and a fresh cup of steaming joe from whatever shop he wandered into that morning. Jim never questioned where it came from, he just accepted the happy feeling in the pit of his stomach when his groggy eyes laid on the cup.

 

"What we got today?" Jim asked, his voice as raw with sleep as it had been the previous night. He set down at the table in front of the older man, looking over the folders. His partner snorted a bit as he looked up, placing down his own coffee with a soft clank.

 

"Empty, damn it. Isn't even eleven o'clock yet." Harvey bitterly mumbled, looking at the cup with disdain. He moved it a good measure, displeased with the lack of a slosh of warm coffee. "What doesn't Gotham have?" He asked. He showed Jim a manila folder, the dogeared files peeking through the top. "You'd think crime would stop on a Friday."

 

HHe would have thought it was a joke, but Detective Bullock never had a good sense of humor in Jim's eyes; His own, maybe. His hands picked up the file on his desk, giving it a once over. Some man was on the loose: A Thomas Rodgers. This guy seemed pretty keen on some rather gruesome deaths, his latest one bringing the total up to four. If Harvey and him weren't careful, they'd have a real serial killer on their hands. He felt some bile come up his throat, washing the growing feeling with a sip of coffee. It pushed away the feeling somewhat.

 

Harvey's large fingers tapped at the desk in concentration, he opened his mouth to speak. "Nygma looked at the scene, said it looked like the body's a couple days old, tops. Getting really sneaky with hiding these. Its like some creepy kid's version of hide and seek."

 

"Any witnesses?"

 

Harvey shook his head, once again tapping at the desk. Any other day, Jim would've wondered if he annoyed himself with it. But today, it seemed Harvey was thinking. "None, unless you count the landowner of the last victim's apartment. Said she saw someone fitting Rodgers description leaving the premise."

 

Jim looked towards him, mind already moving. So they had a last known location for Thomas Rodgers, that was good. But a few days? The guy could've left Gotham by now. "Has she talked to the sketch artist?"

 

"He's going over there now, captain wants us to look into the victim's friends and coworkers. See if anyone knew Rodgers, or even had it out for Rider." His index finger pointed to the victim's last name. The scraping of a chair being pushed back woke Jim from his thoughts. "You coming?"

 

Jim nodded, his lips in a tight line as he pushed out of his chair as well. Though, finding the strength to stand on his own two feet was hard. The coffee still left his body groggy, but he felt better than he did when he first walked in. A lot better.

 

Harvey got up from his chair fully, picking up the empty cup from the desk. He glanced at the clock on the wall in front of the large doors, and Jim already found his mouth opening, answering the unasked question.

 

"We can stop for a lunch break," he told the other, "we have some people to question first." As he grabbed for the victim's address, he thought to himself. _It never was an easy day in Gotham for the police._

 

 **Elsewhere** :

 

A rather brooding man stood behind the counter of a rather posh coffee shop. His apron was neat, matched with his white button-up shirt that fit well to his small frame. His eyes were light, but dark underneath; circles were starting to form. He needed this job, like a man needed air. How else was he going to take care of his mother, and his student loans?

 

A coffee shop. It was the last place he wanted to work at, but he was a people person. His mother always said he hated hanging out with others. That he thought he was better than him; Well, she wasn't wrong. He was better than them by a longshot.

 

But little Oswald was always a people pleaser. Even if he hated the stench of coffee lingering on his clothes during classes, or how even shower after shower never removed the stench, there was still one thing that kept him; He still needed the money. He'd make do, finish his last year of college, and get an even better job than this.

 

It wasn't as though he hated working at Miss Mooney's Cafe, it was wonderful! She was strong-headed, and even stronger willed. A little intimidating, yes. Why, the other cafes closed up due to her booming business. What Oswald displeased even more than the stench of coffee was the lack of respect from the customers. Oswald vowed he was not a coffee dispenser, mentally at least. As he fixed up another impatient man's coffee and handed it over, there was barely a thank you in reply. It stirred a fire deep, but he told himself, he mumbled it low under his breath during his break.

 

"Today will be a new day, I feel it." He mumbled, enjoying the lunch he had packed. He moved away the apples his mother always packed, laying the food out in front of him. "Today is going to be the start of a new life." He took a bite of the apple, enjoying the serene quiet of the breakroom.


	2. Average Joe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harvey and Jim continue to delve deeper into the case surrounding the notorious killer, Thomas Rodgers. Meanwhile, Oswald has his own problems to deal with.

Interviewing the friends and family was always the hard part of the job in Jim's mind. There was regret; not being able to say something more to them, maybe a hatchet that hadn't been buried. Maybe you forgot to ask them one last time to come over for a beer and watch the game? That was the case in Jacob Rider's life. His wife could barely hold herself together in front of him. A woman beside her tried her best to console the widow. Jim could only guess she was the victim's mother, the woman and Jacob had the same dark brown hair and dimples.

 

"Sweetie," she called the woman in her arms, still holding her closer to her bosom. She was stroking her hair; the soft talking and caresses seemed to calm down Mrs. Rider, though her chest rose and fell with each shallow, choked sob. "These men are going to find who did this to our Jacob. You will," her dark brown eyes, filled with trust and remorse, looked up to Jim. He felt a pang of guilt, he wanted nothing more to tell her they would, and _mean it_. "Won't you?"

 

"We'll try our best." It was all Jim could say, "Is there anything else you can tell me about when you last saw Jacob?" He felt guilt that he couldn't do more, give them an honest answer as to when and where they'd bring the man down. All they could do was hope for the best. Harvey was off questioning the landlord, Jim feared worse for her. If there was a trope for bad cop, Harvey would be it; Loud, crass, maybe a little too much alcohol in his system on off-hours.

 

The widow shook her head, her eyes falling back down onto her lap as her fingers teased her palm, she stroked it lightly as she tried to calm down from another sob. "No... He was himself, we didn't live together. He was..." She took a shaky breath, and Jim nodded solemnly. "He was a good man, he did his best to provide for us. He seemed...nervous." The word sounded foreign on her lips. Jim remembered a small detail. This man was a CEO of a business, in Gotham? He was sure to have a few skeletons in his closet. Probably nothing he wanted his wife to discover.

 

Nervous was key though. Did he fear of getting caught? Did he know he was being followed?

 

"Thank you," Jim finally said in the unsettling silence that had come over the three of them. "Everything is going to help, call us if you can think of anything else." He passed her a small card, on which was the number of the GCPD. "Every bit will help."

 

She nodded, taking the card as she gave it a once over, her delicate fingers shakingly moving over the lettering and numbers. Jim excused himself; giving time for them to grieve together was what was best. He got up from his seat, walking to find where his partner was.

 

"Listen you country--" There he was. "I'm asking the questions here, now why are there no security cameras on the inside of the building?!" His voice was louder, patience being worn thin by the shapely country woman. She looked ready to lunge at the man.

 

Her voice remained calm with a southern accent drawl, "I told you what I told you. Government wouldn't let me add any more cameras, we got just the ones outside." She rose a finger as she pointed to the tiny, almost invisible camera just outside the doors. "People are allowed to bring their own in, o'course, but only for their rooms."

 

Harvey groaned sharply, his hand coming up the side of his face. He almost pinched the bridge of his nose as he spoke. "Lady, I'm getting real tired of the excuses. You said you saw the man, didn't you?"

 

"Yes," she replied, a sweeping movement as her hand rested on the top of her hip. It looked like Harvey met his match, she wasn't backing down from his loud and almost threatening tone. "I saw him come in with the younger gentleman. Is it true, did..." She paused. her face paled with Harvey's small 'yeah' and nod. "He was a good guy, always paid his rent on time. Never had any complaints." She sighed.

 

Harvey nodded, looking at the sketch in his hands. It looked identical to Thomas Rodgers, as identical as a sketch could look. Jim mentally congratulated the person who took the sketch; his art was never that good, though he couldn't complain. "He sounded like a real A+ citizen." Harvey's head poked up once he heard Jim's footprints closing in, and he nodded at the woman.

 

"You know the mayor, don't you?" The landlord asked the two. "He'll let me have more cameras after this? I mean he's got to." She sounded definite with her answer. Jim would be surprised if she didn't start writing a letter to Mayor James after they left.

 

"Sure we will," there was that sarcastic, seeping tone in detective Bullock's voice, "we'll walk right over and demand him to." He placed a hand on the woman's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "Right up there with all the city's other problems."

 

"Thank you," she seemed oblivious to the man's tone, only thanking the two over and over again. "I got plenty of families living here. Children, women... They're scared that this man is going to strike again."

 

Jim took it upon himself to take control of the situation. The last thing he needed was for his partner to open his mouth and set the woman off. "He never strikes the same place twice. Tell them they don't have to worry." His kind eyes must have struck a chord with the woman, for she started started smiling.

 

Harvey stood by his partner, eyeing him up with a grumpy expression. This good cop, bad cop routine helped in a couple of pickles; most of which were Harvey's doing, though only he would proudly admit that. "Let's go, it's lunch time."

 

Jim couldn't disagree with him there, it'd been a couple of hours since his last fix of coffee. His stomach told him he'd need to eat up as well. Maybe something sweet, or a sandwich might do.

 

**Elsewhere:**

"You want a caramel macchiato, with _six pumps of caramel_." Oswald asked, his teeth absently grinding as he kept his sarcasm at bay. _Remember your promise to mother_ , he told himself. He tried to breathe through his nose, but found it difficult with the ramblings of this mad man. Surely this man was justing pulling his leg? How could anyone enjoy something THAT sweet?

 

"You didn't hear me the first time? Your boss knew my order by her first week." Oswald felt the need to bury his face deep in his hands and scream.

 

Oswald held himself together, smiling his customer a self-serving grin, "I understand, but I am not my boss, sir." He tried keeping the bite back, but felt his face becoming stoic. "I'll get it to you right away." His hands moved, beginning the order. Six pumps, even two was just enough for Oswald. Was this man a masochist?

 

He was sure of it now. This man had to have been one; who in their right mind had this much caramel in one drink? And he knew Fish Mooney, when she was a barista? Oswald mulled over his thoughts as he handed the drink to the fellow.

 

There was no tip from the man on his way out, and Oswald felt bitter about that. Miss Mooney would surely have a talk with him about it later.

 

_Your customer service needs work, darling._

_You always look so serious, smile._

 

She wasn't a bad woman-- She was just a business woman; If business had a name, it would be Fish Mooney. He and Butch would joke about that; Although, on Butch's part, he was always serious about it. They'd known each other, even before Oswald joined Miss Mooney's Cafe. It was a small business, but crawling its way up the ranks. _Maybe_ , he thought, _one day it'll even surpass Starbucks_.

 

He chuckled briefly at this thought, earning an eyebrow raise from the other barista he was working his shift with. As quickly as the chuckle came, it disappeared. As his head rose up from the register, the door opened. The familiar jingle of bells sounded in the air at the new customers. A man with old eyes, and an older man who was goading him about what to order.

 

"We're not going to waste time while you think of what you want," the older man said.

 

"I'll only be a second," the other man cast him a smile, getting in the growing line.

 

The barista never liked the lunchtime craze, it was when the café was at its busiest, and the rude customers seemed to quadruple. Still, he cast his best customer service smile, and spoke.

 

"Welcome to Miss Mooney's Café . How can we help you today?"


End file.
